High Anxiety

Two years ago, this week, I took part in a week long group study as part of my Masters.  The first three days we worked with Terence on psychometric testing.    I scored 2/10 for empathy and 2/10 for compassion, no surprises there.  I scored 10/10 for social boldness, 8/10 extrovert and 8/10 for anxiety.  That last one shocked me.  An anxious person is someone who is constantly on the edge and is at all times worrying about senseless, pointless things like wondering whether they should bring in the clothes off the washing line in case it rains or getting upset things they have no control over.    

When I got home, I protested to my husband, “I’m not a worrier, I don’t get anxious about anything.”  Hubbie shrugged and said, “Ask to take the test again.”

Still upset the next morning, I stopped by the Common Room before class to check with my work colleagues.  I told them about the test scores before adding incredulously, “And, would you believe, I got 8/10 for anxiety?” 

No response. 

I protested, “I’m not anxious!”  

“Well….” said Maire carefully.

“Well what…?”

Maire paused searching for the right words before settling on, “You’re highly strung.”

The rest of my colleagues agreed.  With some relief, I thought that if being highly strung fell into the anxiety category, I could live with that.   I went back to the class but not ask for another test.    

The final two days of that week, we had Professor Greene for Group Dynamics and Family Constellations.  Fascinating topic.  On Thursday evening, Prof. Greene sent an email to the group requesting we come in half an hour early the following morning.  He wanted to try out a group experiment.

I and three others did not see the email and so we arrived at the usual time to find the entire class sitting in a circle around Prof. Greene in complete silence.  Like latecomers to mass, we stood at the back respectfully silent waiting to see what would happen next.    

After some 20 minutes of silence, Prof Greene spoke, “By now, you will have formed a group consciousness.  Some of you will feel called upon by the group to take on a role.  And so, if you feel compelled to speak, speak.  Alex, a secondary school teacher, spoke as if she was in a trance, “I feel called upon to be your leader.  I will take the group wherever it wants to go.”

‘Ooooh, would you listen to her?' I thought, ‘who does she think she is?”

Silence.

I spoke. "I feel compelled to tell a joke since I have such a captive audience” and then sniggered at my audacity.

A minute’s silence passed.

Then Tina opened her eyes and said, “Go on so Ger, tell us your joke.”

And I did.  It’s my favourite about an Italian, a Frenchman and an Irishman comparing their love lives.  It’s filthy and doesn’t say much for Irish lovers.  I embellished the moment with head rolling and expansive arm gestures.  The theatrics however, were wasted on them as they still had their eyes closed. 

I finished the joke. Silence settled over the group again.   

Prof. Greene spoke, “We’ll take our break now.”

Everyone jumped up and there was a mad rush to the door.  My friend Ber caught my arm and half dragging me down the stairs hissed into my ear, “Where is your filter?” and then pointing to my head said,  “do you even have one?”     In the canteen queuing up to get coffee, my classmates gave me wide berth.  One dared to look over and simpered, “You’re very brave.”   “What is the big deal?” I said to Ber, “We’re not back at school.  He told us to speak if we felt compelled and I felt compelled.”  

Back upstairs in the classroom, we took our seats. Prof. Greene searched the room and said, “Where is she?  Where’s my joker?”  My hand shot up.  He looked at me and said, “You suffer from high anxiety.  Do you have issues with your mother?”   I nodded dumbly.  Prof. Greene continued, “As a child, you were always seeking her approval.  You have a perpetual desire to please and yet nothing you do is good enough for her.  You never got much attention and had to fight to be seen.    You can’t tolerate silence and so where there is a gap, you dive straight in, in an attempt to make it better.  You're not capable of holding your space.” 

I felt like a fly pinned under a magnifying glass.  The entire room disappeared.  I was Dorothy facing my Wizard of Oz.  This was my the moment of truth.  This is what 8/10 anxiety looks like. 
 

“And what’s interesting,” he continued, “is that you told a sexual joke in front of a mixed audience.”  Now, there I disagreed with him.    All my jokes are sexual.  The best ones are.  And what of the mixed audience?  In my insatiable need for attention, an audience is an audience.   

Still he might have a point.  Some years ago, while on holiday in Lanzarote with my mother and sisters, we stopped for dinner in a restaurant perched on a cliff edge.  We found ourselves sitting next to a table with two couples from Scotland.  There were very friendly.  I noticed a steady flow of jugs to their table filled with red liquid, fruit pieces and ice.   "What's in the jugs?" I asked. "Sangria," they said, "It's delicious and it's one of your five fruit a day."  I ordered a jug.   My mother looked at me anxiously, "Couldn't you just have a glass?"      

I was in heaven.  As the sun sank slowly into the sea and the sangria flowed into me, my entire repertoire of jokes and bonhomie flowed out to everyone within shouting distance.  My mother and Louise became increasingly uneasy.  Louise whispered urgently, "If you say penis one more time, I'm leaving."  Unfortunately, Ivan the Terrible was next and his penis was the central theme of the joke.   Louise pushed back her chair and left.  Mum and Catherine fled with her.  I had no choice but to follow: I didn't know the way home.    

When I eventually caught up to them,  Louise was furious.  She said, "Do you want to be raped?"  I scoffed, "Nobody ever got raped for telling a joke." Louise threw her hands up in despair, "But you're giving people the wrong idea.  The way you behave, it sounds like you're gagging for it."  

Prof. Greene might agree with her.